


A Change of Season

by JazzRaft



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cultural Differences, Festivals, Introspection, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13033425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/pseuds/JazzRaft
Summary: The weather of Insomnia is not the only thing changing. A little food, a little company, a little tint of orange leaves over the lens, and much more changes with it.In which, Noctis is invited to the harvest festival and Libertus learns how to get along. Featuring a helpful Crowe.





	A Change of Season

**Author's Note:**

> for the fall themed day of [hellion holidays](https://nyxnoctocalypse.tumblr.com/post/168592900572/tis-the-season). and because it's still fall in my soul, no matter how much snow is on the ground.

“I’m sorry, you know…”

Nyx was very careful not to let his steps falter or halt in a hasty mimicry of his mind. Instead, he pitched a confused look up at Noctis that the prince did not see. He was concentrating too hard on the placement of his feet, tottering along the dry old wood and gripping Nyx’s hand a little harder to keep his balance. Nyx waited until he steadied himself, the heel of his right foot aligned against the toes of his left.

“What are you sorry about? Taking me out on a nature walk for a date? Because I don’t recall complaining.”

Noctis smiled without looking at him, pretending like his balance was entirely dependent on his sight. A wicked notion skated in and out of Nyx’s thoughts, considering if the only way to get him to elaborate was to release his hand and send him flailing off of the fallen tree and into his arms. He smiled at the mental image, but refused to enact it. Betrayal wasn’t his idea of romantic… Though the indignant look of exasperated rage on Noct’s face would definitely be adorable.

“I meant that, um…”

Noct’s brow wrinkled beneath the tousled fall of his bangs, lips pursed behind the blue-and-black plaid pattern of his scarf. He was hiding from something, but Nyx couldn’t tell what it was. Some censure from Nyx for whatever he was asking forgiveness for? As if Nyx could ever refuse him such a thing.

“I’m sorry about Galahd,” Noctis finally said, as careful with his words as he was with his balance. “It sounds like it would be really nice this time of year. And I’m sorry that Insomnia’s so…”

He waved his hand upwards at the divisive ripple of the Wall sneering between the trees, leaves on fire with the autumn chill and so close to convincing Nyx that they were anywhere but Insomnia. Guilt curdled sour in the pit of his stomach though. This time, he did stop walking, giving Noct’s hand a squeeze to warn him before he did so. Noctis gathered his feet beneath him and stood still, arm outstretched to the air in order to hold himself in place.

“I hope you didn’t take my rambling back there as some sort of guilt trip,” Nyx said, framing it in a lighter tone of voice than the seriousness of his thoughts wanted him to.

He’d been talking a lot about home as of late, more than he had any year before. Mostly because he hadn’t had someone asking about it. A couple of his scattered lovers across the years had stuck around long enough and liked him in spite of his heritage enough to be at least a little bit curious. But no one had ever been as voracious with their curiosity as Noctis was.

He would ask one question and Nyx would give him the abridged explanation he’d trained himself to respond with. He’d learned to give just the bare necessities of what someone wanted to know because, if he walked too far back into his memory, he sounded as if he liked Galahd more than Lucis. And many Lucian “patriots” didn’t like that very much.

But Noctis was never content with his rehearsed answers. He always pressed for more in the gentlest, most unobtrusive way, always teasing out a more honest answer, a more heartfelt rendition of his homeland. And he was always so attentive in the way he listened, even when Nyx knew he’d taken the conversation far past his self-made stopping points designed for keeping him in the good graces of his partner. Noctis was a wide, rare avenue for him to travel back along to his childhood, swerving into the skid of every warm memory that knocked him from the present.

Where there were no dangers for Nyx in recounting the fond times of his youth with Noctis, this admission of regret made him worry that the effects of his memories plagued Noctis with a different sort of adversity.

“Listen, Noct, you know that I don’t blame Lucis…”

“Maybe you should.”

He mumbled it, knowing that it was too cruel and untrue of an accusation to make any louder. Noctis winced as if he’d just taken his own fist, reeled it back, and punched himself in the face. He listed to the side and ultimately decided that the ground was stronger footing to stand on for this. He reached his open hand around for Nyx’s, the glaive already prepared with an upturned palm for him to catch onto. Noctis used him as an anchor to jump the little ledge of distance between the tree and the ground, fallen leaves fluttering up from beneath his heels at the impact.

He didn’t let go of Nyx’s hands once he was safe on the ground. He held them a little tighter, in fact. Like he wasn’t anywhere close to being finished falling.

“I mean… Don’t you ever feel like we’re not helping matters by refusing to surrender? We’re the only ones left, and it seems like we’re just making more trouble for the people by not budging an inch. Everyone else in the world is moving on under the Empire. Maybe it’d be safer for everyone if we moved on with them. If we weren’t so stubborn, then maybe… your home wouldn’t be…”

He seemed to realize then that he was walking into a contradiction. Galahd may have not been beaten and burned if Lucis had conceded when Niflheim demanded it, but it would have still ended up the same. They would still be saddled with the same callous ideologies of the Empire that condemned the traditions of the islands – as if they weren’t passed down from a thousand more years of history than Niflheim itself. Their lands would still be reaped for whatever the army could use to strengthen its weapons, their people still abused and manipulated into fighting for a leader that forced their loyalty rather than earned it.

Noctis sighed, fingers weaving idly between Nyx’s. There was a subtle insistence to the movements, a tremor in his pulse that Nyx could feel beneath his palm. Noctis was fidgety by nature. Every little gesture had a different meaning. Nyx could feel his nervousness, his desperation for a merciful wave-off in the barely constrained shiver through his hands.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again. “I just hate that you lost so much and we didn’t do anything to help.”

Nyx had been telling him a lot about autumn on the islands. It was a hard-to-see season in the city, where there were fewer trees to color the passage of time. He’d been telling him about how the autumn season was the festival season, and all the traditions and holidays that the native islanders observed once the vacationers retreated from the coasts.

He’d told him of the big, bountiful harvests from the central farmlands and the pride of the farmers that showed off all their produce at the local fairs. He’d told him a lot about food and tradition, the town-wide pot-lucks, and the bonfires to keep the daemons away with the slow approach of longer nights in the oncoming winter. He told him about carving symbols into squashes to celebrate the lives of those that had passed and inviting their spirits closer to dance in their shadows for one more night. He told him about Galahdian whiskey and wood-carvers, the old weavers and the young bakers.

And the trees. He told him all about how red the trees looked against the slate-blue sea. It took traveling to a whole other district, miles away from the Citadel, to find a park big enough to feel like a forest and with the changing leaves to match. It was a nice and quiet place to breathe and to walk and to think a little too much, in Noct’s case.

“It’s not your fault, alright?” It wasn’t. Not Noct’s. The debate over Lucis’s culpability was a long and bitter one that Nyx never knew which side he stood on. Neither side was Noctis. “We lost a lot, but not everything, okay? And besides, I know that I’ve gotten more than enough to make up for anything I’m missing.”

“Goddamn sweet talker,” Noctis grumbled.

His fingers smoothed up and under Nyx’s arms to pull himself against his chest, pressing his face between the open collar flaps of his jacket. It wasn’t a concession, but a retreat. Nyx knew that he hadn’t convinced him against feeling ashamed of his own countrymen. He knew that Noctis would always carry his own quiet seed of doubt about the state of the world and his part in it. It wasn’t a thought he wanted to let spoil the sentimental peace of their day.

He squeezed Noctis between his arms and teased his fingers through the ends of his hair. He tapped a chastising finger against the back of his neck. “Maybe keep that thought to yourself at dinner?”

Noctis snorted. “I promise not to ruin your holiday with politics. I’m sure just showing my face will be enough to spoil the party.”

Nyx tugged on a lock of his hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make Noctis yelp in surprise and lift his head with a wary glare.

“Don’t talk like that,” Nyx ordered. “I invited you, they’ve had plenty of time to get used to it, and they’re going to be on their best behavior. You be on yours, I’ll be on mine, and everything will be fine.”

“Since when are you this optimistic?”

“Since I love you.”

Sometimes, Noctis still looked surprised when he said it. Sometimes, he still blinked like he’d just woken up from a dream. Sometimes, he was still slow to smile and soften and trust that he meant it. He didn’t say it too often in words – he felt that over-use diminished the value of them – so that when he really needed them, when he really needed Noctis to know that he loved him for more than the faults that he presumed to carry himself, he would hear him.

Nyx cupped his face and kissed his head where the Crown was constantly pressing down. “Everything’ll be fine. Just praise Libs’s cooking and you’ll be a member of the family in no time.”

“All I have to do is kiss ass, huh?” Noctis snorted. “I’ve got plenty of practice with that.”

\---

His arm was purpling worse than the beetroot in the pot with how many times Crowe punched it. He truly didn’t believe that he deserved half of them, but he supposed he had to trust her objectivity on this one. _Gods, when did she go growing up and being the adult of the family?_

It was hard. He knew that it would be and everyone else knew that it would be hard for him, too. Which was why Nyx had given him plenty of time to prepare and cope and work through any issues he might have about it in time for the party. He thought he’d been doing pretty good…

Right up until the day arrived.

He’d been coaching and coercing himself into believing he could look at Noctis and not see the Crown. He was just another guest and Libertus had to do his gran proud by making good company and better food for him. Granny Ostium always said that once a person passed the threshold of your home, they left everything at the door. They left their roles, their politics, their demons, everything in the foyer with their coats and their bags and their boots.

He must not have been appealing to his old bat’s philosophies because Crowe’s punches were starting to feel far too personal. It also didn’t help that he didn’t have a foyer to leave all that shit in.

They were having the party at Malbo Smul’s because it was just more convenient that way. And it was more like what they used to do back home. The local restauranteurs and bartenders would open their doors to the streets and there wouldn’t be a soul without a seat to enjoy a hot meal in the bite of autumn wind coming in with the tides.

For most of the evening, Libertus used the grills and the ovens and all the other ancient appliances behind Yama’s bar to lure him into illusions of home. If he just kept his eyes on the cutting board, he could just listen to the familiar noises of home. He could hear the hollow pats of the drums from the steps of each apartment where squatting percussionists raced their palms across taut canvas. He could hear the whoops and cheers spreading throughout the whole district as drinks were downed and games were played. He could hear Crowe jeering someone – probably Pelna – past their limit, and Tredd speaking slurred Cavaughnese to a group of listeners drunk enough to actually understand him, and the clatter of plates and cups as Luche kept the tables clear for even more food to touch down.

And he could always pick out Nyx’s voice from the raucous revels. Which ended up being less of a virtue than it used to be on this particular evening. He tuned in too quickly to the gruff Galahdian translations to forget that there was someone beside him who needed the dictionary. He glanced up too often to pretend like he couldn’t see the Lucian-black shadow huddled to his side.

Libertus found himself caught between two feelings: a justified anger at watching royalty pretend at repentance by standing amidst a people whom their negligence had cost an entire culture, and a more personal, possessive jealousy at seeing _his_ spot at Nyx’s side occupied by another.

It was so pre-school, he knew that. It was like sulking over a toy that he was being forced to share when he wanted it all to himself. Crowe’s unsubtle punishments throughout the evening told him just how harsh of a picture he was making. He knew that he deserved it. He knew that he was being stupid, that he was disgracing the values imparted to him by his family, and spoiling the festivities for himself by narrowing his view to one person.

He was missing all the color to the district, all the lanterns and torches and strings of fiery orange lights to imitate autumn leaves. He was missing the candles in all the windows in place of bonfires. He was missing the nostalgic fashion of the season on all the passersby, adorned with beaded accessories and symbols of their old customs.

He was wasting all the flavors of the food by letting them sour in his stomach with his distaste for the Prince and his false platitudes and his pretend smile and his expensive clothes with the blood of their homeland on the price-tags and…

“Um, hey…”

Libertus froze mid-stir, watching the russet chunks of potatoes and beef churn in the pot before braving a glance up. Noctis tentatively placed two clay bowls against the counter, both swiped clean of harvest stew with the errant crumbs of the flatbreads served with it. Noctis smiled, the smallest wisp of a thing that Libertus had ever seen. It made his bruises ache.

“Is there enough for seconds?” the prince asked, craning his neck towards the simmering stew.

The childish seed of malcontent in Libertus’s gut wanted him to deny a share of his snacks as much as his toys. But he remembered that he was an adult and put that kid in the corner for a time-out just long enough to grunt in reply and ladle more spoons full into the bowls. He could feel Nyx somewhere in the benches beyond the bar watching him, transmitting decades of friendship into his brain as a warning to _play nice._ Noctis was definitely trying to.

“Is this an old family recipe?” he asked on the exhale of a deep breath. “I’ve heard that you used to be a cook.”

Libertus bit down a less than savory response about roasting him alive with all the chef experience he had, and instead just said, “Yeah. Worked for a bar.”

“Me too. Sort of. Not a bar, but I worked at a fast food place in high school.”

Libertus’s brow scrunched up in confusion. Well, that didn’t sound… real. The Crown Prince, heir to the throne, son of Regis Lucis Caelum the Whatever-teenth, slumming it with the minimum wagers behind the counter of a commercial grease-trap? Nyx must have put him up to this. This must have been another notch in the mockery of their “relationship.” This must have been the Crown further insulting him, and Nyx finally betraying him for it…

He could feel the sharp elbow to his forearm without Crowe even standing there to deliver the blow. He swallowed his disbelief and his disgust and he poured more soup. “Is that right?”

“I wasn’t very good at it,” Noctis admitted. “Definitely not as good as this.” He lifted the one full bowl while Libertus filled up the other one, curls of steam lilting up from the deep brown broth. “Is it hard to make?”

Libertus squinted at the bowl, suspicious of the questions. He shrugged. “Not really. It’s a secret recipe.”

“I figured. That’s what makes it so good, right?”

His smile was different up close, Libertus realized. He’d only ever seen it at a distance, on the rare television appearances or across the training fields or in the rearview mirror when he was delegated to chauffeur duty. There was no screen to filter across it now, no dust kicked up from training, no glare from the mirror. He could see Noctis just how he is, down here in the immigrant district – down in Libertus’s home, of all places.

There was something just… honest about it. It was hard to spot the lie in the soft features and the shy eyes peeking out from behind his hair. Noctis lifted both bowls in a gracious toast before heading back to his table.

“Thanks for this. You should take a break and come join us, okay?”

Libertus didn’t agree nor dissent, and Noctis was in too much of a hurry to escape with his food to wait for a reply. Libertus followed him as he found his seat next to Nyx again, noticing how his shoulders melted and he puffed out a breath. Something else soured in Libertus’s stomach, and it had nothing to do with jealousy. It took all of the kid’s courage to approach him by himself. And he suddenly felt like Crowe’s jabs at him were justified.

He slipped a few more glances at them while he refilled bowls and finished up dishes and worked on regaining his footing as a proper host. He noticed things about Noctis and Nyx that he refused to see before. He saw how his friend softened next to him, opened in a way he hadn’t seen since they were teenagers, dopey on high school crushes. It’s not as shallow as that though. Still just as raw, just as fresh and new with the wonder of love, but there was something more profound to it. Something wiser and warmer.

He caught the way their hands interlocked beneath the table, a gesture so absent-minded that it looked instinctual. Like they’ve been doing it for years, like it’s as second-hand as taking a breath. He saw how Noctis looked at _everything_ and how his lips moved with questions and curiosity that Nyx was immediate with obliging. He saw how Noctis tried to taste every dish and how he pouted at his own limit when he couldn’t fit anything else in his stomach. He saw how his eyes followed Nyx’s arm when he indicated a performer in the streets and the enrapt attention he gave to Nyx’s explanations and translations.

He saw how Nyx’s arm was always around him, saw how he protected him from more wary stares… and something else. Something unsaid between just the two of them.

It’s a different lens, one that he isn’t sure how to trust himself to completely. But it’s real, at least. A truth that he didn’t want to know before. Things aren’t as black and white as he would prefer them to be… And he isn’t sure if he preferred that to begin with.

He sees the color of his district when he glances up. His sight widens from the singular point of black-leathern indulgence that had adorned Nyx’s life. He sees the shadow shade and blend with the reds and oranges and yellows of the fires and the streamers and the food. He sees a winter greeting his fall rather than trampling it with snow.

Later, when the sky is blackened beyond the bright lights of the lanterns strung between the streets, Libertus occupies the seat next to Crowe across from them. He drops a bag of cranberry pastries on the table.

“It’s Harvest Day. It wouldn’t be tradition if someone didn’t smuggle extra dessert out of the kitchen.”

Nyx nudges Noctis and murmurs a smug, “I told you so.”

Libertus kicks him under the table. It makes Noctis laugh. Crowe bumps her shoulder into his as they all lay claim to a pastry to finish off the night. It doesn’t leave a bruise this time.


End file.
